Thrones

A short story I wrote for a University coursework portfolio. Inspired vaguely by Game of Thrones. More of an outline or summary or prologue to a story really, but I like it. Please comment and enjoy :D

3Likes
3Comments
1640Views

1. Thrones

 

Five years of horror, and with each passing day Metheus' soul felt blacker, heavier, full of the hopeless dreams of the innocent dead. There are only two guilty men in this war, Metheus thought, and they both sit on thrones. The pen swung down to paper, its ink like black blood and its user black-hearted. He felt as if it were he who was swinging the sword, not the executioner, and as he passed the page down to his Lawgiver he caught the eye of the accused, behind him. He was just a boy, his beard just golden wisps, his eyes wide gray saucers. He would die because he was born on the wrong side of the river, because his father swore fealty to the wrong king. It wasn't a fair judgment, but then nothing had been fair since this war began.

 

He remembered the day well, when it all began. The thoughtless taking of one life that had ended thousands of others. The death of Metheus' sister, Ramina, Crown princess and heir to the throne. Metheus, although younger, was male, and would have inherited the the crown, but Methius was a cripple, born twisted and ill-shaped, and prone not to live to full age. Methius had insisted against tradition and had made Ramina next in line to their ill and aging father, the late King Methius III of house Epime. Oh how I would have have done things differently if I had but known. Hindsight is a terrible thing. King Metheus had died, and with Ramina crowned, Metheus and his sister were making the traditional visit to all the major lords of the kingdom, to show them their new ruler. Some had seemed resentful of having a woman on the throne, others openly pleased, but none had openly noted to former. No, all had greeted Queen Ramina with a drop to the knee, a kiss to the hand, and an oath of fealty. All except Lord Standar. Metheus could remember every detail.

 

“What is this?” He exclaimed from the steps to his hall as the royal party entered the forecourt, “Is the protection and governance of our kingdom a joke to you Epimes? You would put a woman on the throne because that pathetic excuse for royalty is too crippled to sit on it himself? The line of house Epime has grown weak, my lords and ladies, and I think it is time you gave that crown to someone more deserving. Me.” Ramina looked up at Standar and smiled, and at that moment Metheus had never been so proud of his sister. She had been trained to be a queen for most of her life, and she showed it in her last moments.

“Lord Standar,” she said, her voice carrying clearly and strongly, a queen's voice, “I find your lack of hospitality most unbecoming. It is treason you speak of, and treason is not talk fit for the outdoors. Let me into your halls, and I am sure I can persuade you that this kingdom's first Queen will not be one that they will regret. Your great grandfather's father helped mine to secure this kingdom under one benevolent rule, surely you would not risk all that they had striven to achieve?”

Standar's face twisted into a sneer as he raised his hand, and instantly they were surrounded by soldiers, the rooftops around them suddenly covered with archers.

“The wrong king was crowned that day, one hundred years ago.” He said as he paused a moment to turn his raised hand into a fist. A twang sounded and suddenly Queen Ramina was dead, an arrow embedded in her ribs, “But this time I will right the wrong.”

 

The queen's guard had fled with Metheus against the overwhelming odds, and by some miracle Metheus had survived. Lord Standar soon proclaimed himself king, wearing Ramina's very crown, and had expected no one strong enough to oppose him. Metheus had found the strength. Despite the pain that got worse everyday, the weariness that led him quicker to his bed every night, Metheus had opposed Standar at every turn. Lords chose sides and armies where levied, and so began the War of the Crown. They called him the Cripple King, one side with spite and one with pride.

 

And so the Cripple King looked into the eyes of this innocent, unlucky squire of some minor lord as a he was pushed onto the block. One of countless thousands. There are only two guilty men in this war, he pondered as the squire's head rolled on the ground beneath him,And both of them sit on thrones.

 

But by the end there will be only one guilty man. And I don't expect to live a day longer.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...